The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [58]
“Gotta be one fast snake, to keep up with that horse.” Pinkie seemed to find that very satisfying. “And speaking of the horse, Pinkie, he’s going the wrong direction—you oughtta know that.”
“Yes,” Pinkie answered, looking at the picture.
“And how about the sky?” I asked. “Is it supposed to be day or nighttime?”
“Do you know,” Pinkie answered, squinting those strangely colored eyes. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Hunh,” I said, giving the picture the once-over again. “Well, sorry, Pinkie, but it gives me the jitters. I’ll take that one up there.” I pointed to a nice, richly colored job that showed a pretty young girl with strawberry-blond hair: shadowy, yes, but comforting, not gloomy.
“Ah,” Pinkie said. “My ‘Little Maid of Acadie.’ Yes, I rather like her, too—and she’s almost finished. You’ve a good eye, young Stevie.” He covered the unsettling picture on the easel back up. “Now, then, Laszlo, have you come just to check on my health, or for some other reason? I suspect the latter, as you are a man who always has reasons.”
The Doctor looked away a little self-consciously. “Unkind, Albert,” he said with a smile. “But true. I told you, Sara, that Albert could have been a psychologist if he’d wished.” Pinkie shut the gas lamp off, and we started back for the front room. “The fact of the matter is, Albert, that we’ve come for a reference.”
“A reference?”
“We need a portraitist,” the Doctor said, as Miss Howard got back onto her flea-bitten throne. “One capable of doing a portrait not from life but from a detailed description.”
Pinkie looked intrigued. “An unusual request, Laszlo.”
“It’s my request, actually, Mr. Ryder,” Miss Howard said—and very wisely, too, for while Pinkie might’ve smelled something in the wind if the suggestion had come from a man, he’d take it as gospel coming from a woman—especially a handsome young woman. “It is—or rather was—a distant member of my family. She died rather suddenly. At sea. We’ve found that we have no painting, not even a photograph, to remember her by. My cousin and I—she lives in Spain, as did our dead relation—were discussing how much we wished we had some kind of an image for a keepsake, and the Doctor said it might be possible to do one from memories and descriptions.” She took a very fetching little sip of her beer. “Do you think it might? I have only the greatest admiration for your work, and would count your opinion as definitive.”
Well, sir, Pinkie walked right into it: he grabbed hold of the lapels of his worn wool jacket, got most of the usual stoop out of his stance, and started to walk the floor as if his shoes were the best patent leather, instead of filled with straw and oatmeal. “I see,” he said thoughtfully. “An interesting idea, Miss Howard. Your relative was a woman, you say?”
“Yes,” Miss Howard answered.
“There are many excellent portraitists in New York. Ordinarily, Chase would be the first choice—do you know him, Kreizler?”
“William Merritt Chase?” the Doctor asked. “We’ve only met briefly, but I know his work. And you’re right, Albert, he’s a superb choice—”
“Actually,” Pinkie cut in, “I don’t think so. If your subject is a woman … and if you’re working from memories alone … I think you ought to have a woman do the job.”
That brought a smile what was in no way an act to Miss Howard’s face. “What an excellent idea, Mr. Ryder!” She glanced up pointedly at the Doctor. “And how refreshing …” The Doctor simply rolled his eyes and turned away. “Do you happen to know one?”
“I’m often taunted by my colleagues for seeing the work of as many artists as I can,” Pinkie answered, “whatever their background. Or sex. I believe there is merit in almost any serious picture, no matter who the painter may be. Yes, I believe I know the very person for you. Her name is Cecilia Beaux.” Miss Howard’s head cocked a bit, as if in recognition. “Do you know of her, Miss Howard?” Pinkie said, ready to be impressed.
“I seem to know the name,” Miss Howard answered, wrestling with it. “Does she teach, by any chance?”
“Yes, indeed. At the